is good news, right?
Life is full, but not so full I couldn't blog. I don't know why I wait until I have an overwhelming amount of snapshots before I force myself to load them. Maybe it's that blogs, by nature, include artifice. They're a construct, whether one carefully shapes words and images to reflect the best or just slaps something together with a glue stick. By the time dusk falls, it often seems like more effort than I'm willing to give. Somehow I fool myself into thinking it will be easier to blog in massive portions, but, just like candy, blogs are probably better in small doses.
What did you miss? Everything springing. A broad band of red on the opposite hill; the maples speaking spring while still circled by brown and gray. Leafiness. The first froth of leaves like yellow-green scraps of lace left behind.
Windows open in daytime to warm the house and shut fast at night to keep out the chill. Trudging through the last of the books and putting on a brave face for the children when all I really want to shout is "School's out!" Spindly-legged seedlings, vegetable and flower, too small to shoulder all the hopes I place on them, moving from table to table and back again but never getting enough sunlight to grow straight and tall.
Blossoms, oh, blosssoms! Heady with blossoms folded in layers of creams and pinks, filling the breeze with honey. Green and yellow bursting in every direction. Birdsong and flutter and swoop. The choice to throw yarn scraps on the lawn in hopes of lining a nest.
First sunburns but none for Piper, who grows brown and golden, our little Nut Berry rich in sunlight. Ladybugs trundled from indoor windows to the great outdoors by the dozens upon dozens. Honeybees, virtue-filled, gather and buzz all unceasing. The girls, like little bees themselves, move in and out, hourly clutching fresh bouquets to stuff in vases, hovering close to see my exaggerated delight at the bunches of color that liven our home.
Peepers and hopeful night-song. All things new but old and familiar, too; seasons in an endless, comforting circle. Young leaves shot through with bright white light, gold, as if the sun, too, grows young in spring. Filthy children, filthy feet; the dirt a testament to hours of play. Daylight stretching longer than it has any right to.
And now lunch break's over, so I'll end the ramble, though I'm punch-drunk enough on spring to yammer for a while longer. (I used up an entire year's allotment of sentence fragments, too. Rats.)
